Science fiction and you!

I've been a busy little bee lately. Between bouts of scouring Downtown Houston for bits of my identity and diligently coding away at work I stumbled upon this interesting article on io9.com. For those of you who don't read io9, it's basically a science/technology wankfest of a Gawker blog that appeals to my constant desire to be force-fed nerdy, delicious news-- like a Slashdot that appeals to people under the age of 40 or 400 pounds, whichever comes first.

The aforementioned article poses some relatively deep questions about the relation of science fiction to science fact, like how our blooming imaginations have the effect of shaping research, engineering, and society's perceptions of the former two. It certainly points out some classic examples of negative (if not cautious) influence-- rampant AI in the Terminator series, genetic engineering in Gattaca, unchecked scientific endeavors in Frankenstein, et cetera. Those works of sci-fi have not only served as pervasive warnings to scientists of the dangers of unguided technology, but also hampered research in those respective fields due to the unjust fears they peddle. The list of fictional works that have made positive impact, on the other hand, is a bit harder to compile. I mean, this article cites WALL-E as shaping sentient robotics and environmental awareness, for chrissake. Talk about a stretch.

My thoughts on the subject are a little biased, being an engineer myself. I can ashamedly, albeit with a smirk, admit that playing Half-Life all throughout my adolescence got me interested in quantum technologies. I mean, portals? Entanglement? Strange matter? Popular media certainly has a way to inspire us to delve further into a subject and educate ourselves properly.

My biggest irk with popular media that tries to make a point about technology is that, well, most people are stupid. I'm no objectivist, though-- I think Ayn Rand was a pretentious [word that McCain called his wife] who tried to tie her selfish worldview into a philosophy, and that the thinkers of the world should indeed answer to the authority of the masses.

But people are generally stupid. Stupid people are more than willing to affirm themselves as experts on a subject after seeing one Hollywood blockbuster that touches upon it. How many people are probably scared shitless (or at least overly wary) of the concept of artificial intelligence after seeing all the Matrix films? How many senators, world leaders, policy shapers, and gatekeeprs probably learned everything they know about engineered foodstuffs from Soylent Green? How many people know nothing about genetic research outside what they read in Marvel comics?

Those movies were written with the expressed purpose of being entertaining, NOT as educational films to be broadcast to seventh graders during science class. And yet that happens all the time. The scientific community is then at the whims of voters who know nothing about the scientific world but the fear instilled upon them by popcorn-laden Saturday matinées.

And that's no good for a kid who wants to build space lasers and teleportation devices.

Is there any easy solution to rectifying society's perceived fears of potentially life-changing, beneficial science? I suppose that harping on the "educate the masses" argument sure would be a start. More importantly, though, I think that artists on all fronts need to realize the impact that their works have on fields of seemingly unrelated research.

After all, it's the dumb people that are handing out the grants.

Christmas in July

We eagerly dashed across the street, heeding the flashing orange hand and countdown that beckoned us out of the neighborhood and into the lights of the city. The remaining hues of daytime were now gone. They'd been replaced by steady greens and reds and sodium yellows and halogen whites that bled and hovered over the brick and stone and glass pillars of the Medical Center. Behind that lingering urban fog was a was a darkness that begged for illumination.

It was almost nine o'clock by the time we finally reached the METROrail stop. Our northbound journey took us winding alongside the overgrown oaks of Hermann Park, shifting and bumping and jerking as the train held loosely to the metal rails below. We all stared through the windows at the streaks of city as they whizzed past. Our sealed lips held back devilish grins. I took comfort in the fact that spacing out at the beauty of the night is a commonplace on trains.

The doors of the train hissed open to madness as we marched out into the crowds. Neighborhoods stretching from West University to Midtown had all converged on Hermann Park to watch the night's spectacle. We continued our urban migration alongside the area's luxurious high rise apartments, where residents were leaned half-awake on their balconies waiting for the night to begin. A quick-paced current of families and couples pushed against us, headed in the opposite direction.

Finally, we reached the parking garage of my own apartment complex. Our nervous, eager legs knew only acceleration as we pushed our way up the stairs to the roof. We counted the floors-- four, five, and finally an unmarked door that opened to a most spectacular view of Downtown Houston.

I took a deep breath of night air and looked around. There was an overwhelming sense of childhood innocence that jumped from smile to smile between the young and old residents gathered on the roof. The children were armed with small American flags, waving them viciously around as their parents leaned over the edge of the roof, tending their half-full beers with one hand and holding their respective others'. College students like us dangled their legs over the edges of pick-up truck tailgates.

From the roof we could see every inch of the Harris County skyline, from the Galleria to the far-off tower at the University of Houston and even specks of lights coming from Galveston. As the proverbial clock ticked seconds closer to 9:30, we began to hear small cracks and bangs from all over the city. Then one large snap far off in the distance hushed Houston like a deadly shockwave.

An explosion of florescent color sent shards of light bouncing in every direction, shimmering off the sharp edges of the skyline and projecting an eerie chromaticity onto the city below. Fiery specks of light moved through the air and painted it with Day-Glo trails and streaks of smoke. We stood and watched this with our mouths gaped open, our eyes fixed to the north. Patterns of hearts, faces, and planets emerged from the initial blinding flashes. As the intensity of the eruptions increased, as did the choir of oohs and ahhs and deep breaths and shuffling feet around me.

I was ecstatic by the time the bright lights of the finale dimmed against the faces around me-- faces that wore expressions of hope, celebration, bewilderment, reflection, and a lifetime of Fourth of July celebrations past. It truly was Christmas in July.